And There Is a Whole Childhood in a Nutshell
by JasNutter
Summary: "I'll be mother." Mycroft and Sherlock through the ages.


The muffin he's swiped is fluffy and sweet, fresh out of the oven and still warm. He wolfs it down and immediately wishes he'd eaten it slower.

The house is big – opulent in its grandeur, polished marble and carpeted spiral stairways, walls gleaming, windows high and looming. The house is empty – his footsteps echo forlornly.

The baby is to come home today and father is in his bedroom, passed out from another inebriated stupor. Mummy is delivering alone, and Mycroft doesn't think she minds – it's surely better than having father around. There's a mistress, he knows, and soon father will leave. He hopes so.

Mycroft is seven.

He waits by the window until the car pulls up the curved driveway and watches as Mummy emerges. An unknown young lady steps out behind her, holding a bassinet. He runs to the door to pull it open before the bell rings and smiles as his mother walks in. She doesn't look at him; heads straight for the staircase and so he turns to the bassinet instead, standing on tip toes to peer in.

Sherlock.

Mycroft tastes the name, rolling out the syllables. Keen eyes peer back up at him.

He has their father's eyes.

* * *

The house is hollower than ever and his footsteps still echo, but the cold thaws slightly because there are little fingers to look at now. Little limbs and little nails – grabby little hands trying to pull at Mycroft's neat hair. He smiles and Mycroft thinks that if their father smiled, he'd look just as sweet. He smiles back fondly and it feels so strange.

And he worries – oh how he worries, dashing back from school and straight into the nursery, dropping his bag at the door to examine kicking feet and fragile back, praying and praying that the bruises on his own back hasn't appeared on his. The unmarred skin is a rush of relief and he can breathe again. Of course there aren't any – there's a nurse to take care of the baby now. She smiles kindly at him and he smiles shakily back.

Tomorrow he will worry again.

"Don't cry, Sherlock", he whispers sometimes. "Don't you cry, now. You'll make father angry."

Sherlock chuckles up at him and Mycroft feels as though he's being mocked.

He doesn't cry and it worries Mycroft.

* * *

"Why does he not cry?" He asks, titling his head to see the needle push into the whimpering baby's arm.

"Hmm?" The doctor is distracted, disposing of the syringe and pulling off the gloves. Mycroft grits his teeth.

"He only whimpers. He never cries. I always listen."

The doctor gives him a sad sort of smile and Mycroft knows exactly why. He raises his chin defiantly. He's not too young to look after his brother. He hasn't been too young in a long time.

"It's normal in some babies", the doctor gives him a pat meant to be assuring, and assuring it is, strangely. Mycroft clings to its passing comfort. "Nothing to worry about."

It's one less thing to worry about.

* * *

It's a pleasant spring night and Mycroft wishes it would rain fast and hard so his father would get sopping wet when he finally shakes off his shrieking wife and stomps out of the house. He moves silently up the huge staircases, listening to yells bouncing off the walls, and walks through the hallway. His shoes tap against the marbles, and the sound resonates like cold voices.

Soft whimpers come from Sherlock's nursery and Mycroft steps in. The nanny isn't present – she's probably stolen off to see her lover again. He gently picks Sherlock from where he lays and, stumbling slightly, he walks to the arm chair usually occupied by the missing lady, cradling Sherlock carefully against his chest.

Below them, the angry yelling morphs to frightened screaming; a series of sickening crashes and bangs issue. Sherlock's quieting whimpers get louder and Mycroft cringes. His throat tightens and he rocks back and forth, pressing the child against his fat chest.

It only gets louder.

He sits Sherlock on his lap and covers his ears. He doesn't want him to hear.

The front door finally slams and heavy footfalls move away from the large, empty house. Mycroft breathes a heavy sigh of relief, stroking his sleeping brother's back.

It's one other less thing to worry about.


End file.
